


The Music

by Saziikins



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, M/M, Romance, possible depression, uplifting ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-02
Updated: 2015-03-02
Packaged: 2018-03-15 22:00:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3463595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saziikins/pseuds/Saziikins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg hasn't seen Sherlock anywhere but the sofa for a month. He decides to take him to the theatre but it has an impact in a way he wasn't expecting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Music

**Author's Note:**

> I had this idea while at a concert and had to write it asap. I've been wondering about Sherlock's musical aspirations a lot lately and this is the result.
> 
> Slight warning... I've not explicitly said Sherlock is depressed, but it feels as though he is. So you know in advance.

The rain was still hammering down on the warm ground, as it had been for much of the day. They’d had two weeks of intolerably hot and humid weather, followed by this 24-hour downpour. In truth, Greg was pleased to see the back of the heatwave that had engulfed London.

He ducked his head down as they ran from the car to the theatre doors, Sherlock close behind him. Two members of the theatre staff were holding the doors open for them and Greg grunted a thanks as they got inside. Sherlock was frowning, looking around at the audience members in their fine gowns and three-piece suits. “Where’s the body?” he asked, turning to Greg.

“Just thought you could use a break,” Greg replied, taking the pair of tickets out of his pocket and holding them out. Sherlock stared at him, his crystal blue eyes narrowing, a small sneer on his lips. But the vitriol Greg was expecting did not pour out of his mouth. Instead he shrugged and looked around. “I’m using the bathroom,” he declared, leaving Greg stood there with the tickets still in his hand.

He flashed an awkward smile to the teenager selling programmes, who was watching him as though he’d just been dumped. He hastily bought a programme from her and rolled it up and shoved it in his coat pocket.

But Greg had been sure if he’d told Sherlock where they were going, he would have said no.

It had been a month since Greg had seen Sherlock anywhere but his sofa, stretched out along it in the dark and silence, dressed in his dressing gown and pyjamas. It had been three months since he’d last touched drugs. Which meant it was six-and-a-half months since Mary Watson gave birth to a baby girl. Seven months since Greg had been shot in the shoulder, a day after the videos of Moriarty appeared across London. That meant it was also seven months since Sherlock turned up at Greg’s flat, urged him to get out of the capital, shared with him their first kiss, in which Greg hardly had time to respond, and then promptly disappeared.

They’d not done a lot of touching or kissing this past month. Mostly, Greg blamed himself, because his case load had got ridiculous and Sherlock was refusing to help him. And he had no idea where their relationship was going and four months ago, Sherlock had stopped confiding in him.

Sherlock emerged from the gents’ loos, holding his hand out. Greg managed a smile and handed him one of the tickets and then followed him up the stairs.

They were as far back in the small theatre as they could possibly have been. Greg had picked up the tickets for a classical string concert at the last minute.

He had been at a crime scene with Sally, and bemoaning the fact Sherlock had turned him down again to look at the body and give his assessment. “Damn it, Donovan,” he had said, clenching his fists. “I just wish I knew what the hell to do to make him get off his arse and…” He sighed and shook his head. “Sorry.”

“Sounds like he’s bloody miserable,” she had replied. “Give him an incentive.”

“An incentive? This is an incentive. He used to love having crimes to solve.”

“He must love other things?” Sally said.

“Yeah, like… running around London like a maniac, his fancy clothes, taunting his brother, playing the violin and...”

“Violin?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“My boyfriend and I are both members of this cosy theatre near our flat. I think they have a string concert tomorrow. Have our tickets.”

“No, I can’t do that.”

“Seriously. He clearly needs to do something besides sitting on his backside, and you need to talk about something other than Sherlock sitting on his backside.”

So, Greg had the tickets. He had dressed up in a smart shirt with a tie, went round to Baker Street and found Sherlock exactly where he expected him to be. He told Sherlock it was a baffling case, on the 10 scale, with hidden messages and codes, and a locked room. Basically, he’d said, it was the biggest case they’d ever had.

Sherlock had got up and showered, although he’d been asking questions the whole journey there. Greg had to concoct a make-believe crime, amalgamating elements from his various cases from over the years. He had a feeling Sherlock was beginning to get suspicious by the end, but by then, he was already parking the car outside the theatre.

They took their seats, and Greg handed him the programme. Sherlock glanced suspiciously at him, but didn’t say a word as he began to flick through the pages. Greg checked his watch. They’d made it with only a few minutes to spare as getting Sherlock off the sofa and into some clothes had taken much longer than he was expecting. But the lights went down, and the musicians began to introduce themselves and their first piece.

It wasn’t Greg’s cup of tea. Not really. Classical music only ever appealed to him when it was Sherlock playing it, and he’d always been mesmerised by him. It was the only time, Greg thought, that he ever truly seemed to relax. And Sherlock’s playing had been a part of Greg’s life for the best part of 10 years now.

The first day Greg had ever seen him, Sherlock had been stood by the steps leading down into an underground station, busking. Technically, he shouldn’t have been there, but Greg was already late for work after a row with his wife, and he couldn’t be bothered to get into a petty squabble with a busker so early in the morning. And besides, he played so beautifully, he couldn’t bear to deprive other commuters of his obvious talents.

He gave Sherlock his loose change the next time he passed him. And every other day after that, until Sherlock finally stopped his playing, frowned at him, deduced his life story and then asked if Greg was in need of a consulting detective.

The musicians played beautifully though. Greg was no expert, but even he knew when someone was at the very peak of their game, having perfected their craft over many dedicated years. He clapped in all the right places, and tried his best not to let his mind drift to other things.

They played a mixture of melodies, from brooding, sombre pieces to more uplifting, almost humorous tunes. The first half ended on a jovial up-tempo number which made Greg smile. They bowed, the audience clapped, and they went off stage.

Greg turned to Sherlock and smiled. “Alright?” he asked. Sherlock nodded, his expression blank and void of anything at all. It made Greg’s heart hurt to see him. “Right. I’m going to get an ice cream for the interval. You want one?”

“No.”

Greg nodded and got up, jogging down the steps to join the queue. He collected the small pot and the tiny plastic spoon and re-took his seat. “Five quid for this,” he muttered as he peeled off the paper lid. He scooped up a tiny amount of the vanilla ice cream, savouring the taste of it as it melted on his tongue. Just as he went for a second scoop, Sherlock was plucking the spoon from him. “God’s sake,” Greg muttered to him as Sherlock wrapped his lips around the spoon. “You want that?”

Sherlock turned to him and wordlessly took the pot from Greg’s hands. Greg couldn’t help but laugh at the daft bugger as he got back up to buy another overpriced ice cream. He sat back down just as the musicians returned to a warm applause.

More music followed. Some experimental pieces, and a few tunes which made Greg wonder how they could ever be considered proper music.

“This is a bit of an unusual piece too, only in that I don’t think it’s been played a lot before,” the grey-haired, and obviously very experienced, violinist said. “We were on a tour in Germany a year or two ago, and I was going for a walk on a night off in Hamburg and heard this beautiful music coming from a café. So I went in, and there was a man playing a violin like it was an extension of himself. It was exquisite. And I was incredibly moved by his playing. This man, he wouldn’t give me his name. But apparently the sheet music had been found at a jumble sale or something. Anyway, he was kind enough to let me photocopy his music. And it’s a magnificent piece, just for a violin, so I’ll play it for you tonight.”

He drew out the first note, a long hum of a thing, before launching into one of the most beautiful pieces Greg had ever heard. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sherlock sit up a little straighter.

Greg closed his eyes for a few minutes, letting the music wash over him, carrying his mind away where he could focus on nothing but the beauty of the notes and the instrument. When he opened them again, as the tune reached its concluding notes, he glanced at Sherlock and saw his eyes filled with unshed tears. Greg quickly looked away before Sherlock knew he’d seen.

They left in silence at the end. Greg led them to the car, and they sat listening to the rain on the windscreen and the roof of the car. He parked outside of 221B.

“Come up,” Sherlock told him, getting out of the car and closing the door before Greg could respond. Greg paused for a moment, shrugged and followed him into the flat. It was more of a mess once the lights were switched on than Greg had realised earlier that night. Plates were stacked up in the living room, mould growing on them, glasses unwashed in the sink, experiments half complete in the kitchen.

Sherlock pointed him towards the sofa, and Greg sunk down onto it, adjusting the cushions behind his back. “So what is it you-” he began to ask, but Sherlock was already walking away, towards his bedroom. Greg let out a long breath, leaning forward on his legs until Sherlock returned, his violin case in one hand and a wad of creased and torn sheet music in the other.

He opened his mouth but Sherlock quickly told him to shut up. Greg did so. He watched as Sherlock took out his instrument and his bow, waited while he tuned it, amazed at Sherlock’s ability to hear the notes and know when it was the right time to play it.

Sherlock turned away from him then, facing the window and putting the sheet music onto the stand. Greg sat back in the chair. Long seconds passed. Sherlock turned so he was side on to Greg. Then he played the first note, the tension seemingly evaporating from his body, his eyes suddenly alive. Then he played the second and the third notes, and it had Greg sitting on the edge of his seat in disbelief.

They’d heard that music tonight.

It had been the most beautiful music Greg had heard, and coming from Sherlock, it was even more intense and stunning. If Sherlock had been overawed by emotion earlier, Greg was now. He bottled it deep inside him but felt it nonetheless.

It was haunting and intensely moving.

Sherlock reached the end and Greg could hardly breathe.

Sherlock turned to him and collected his sheet music. He walked over to the sofa and held it out to Greg. Greg glanced up at his face, and then the music, taking it from him. He flicked his eyes over the light brown papers, pursing his lips. Sherlock was watching him intently. “Recognise it?” Sherlock asked.

Greg shrugged. “I don’t… Should I?”

“Yes. You bought it for me.”

Greg blinked at him before turning to the front page. “Oh,” he whispered, suddenly remembering. His wife had been going through an antiques phase, and he’d picked it up at a car boot sale. The paper had faded, had been torn and even burned on one corner. He’d had no idea if the music was any good, but he gave it to Sherlock after he’d been drug-free for six months. Sherlock had thrown it on the kitchen counter, because he was far more interested in the case Greg also had for him. Or so Greg had thought at the time.

“Wait,” Greg said, suddenly realising. “That violin bloke. He heard you playing. In Hamburg.”

Sherlock nodded, sinking down into his chair, the violin and bow still in his hands. “The violinist… I had no idea who he was by sight. I didn’t ask, I was more interested in someone in the café I had been tracking. He asked for the music and I wanted him to go away, so I said yes, if he’d give me a deposit. He did and returned the music to me the following night.” Sherlock glanced down at his knees. “He’s a fine player. My teacher used to say he was one of the best out there and… I came to agree. I didn’t even know he was still playing until tonight.”

“It’s… amazing. What he said about you.”

“Yes, it was,” Sherlock replied, his voice full of wonder before he looked Greg in the eyes. “Thank you. For taking me tonight.”

“You’re welcome.”

“No one’s… you’re the only person who has given me sheet music. You’re now also the first person to give me tickets to a concert since I was a child.”

“You’re welcome,” Greg whispered. “You… you just play so brilliantly. It’s just nice to see you doing it again.” “

I stopped,” Sherlock admitted. “After John and Mary’s wedding and… well, everything that happened. I haven’t played it since then, and that’s a remarkably long time. It’s the longest I’ve ever gone apart from…” He stopped suddenly, as though he’d said too much.

“Go on,” Greg pressed gently, knowing Sherlock often took a little prompting when it came to these things. Sometimes it seemed as though no one else knew that. Like they thought Sherlock had no heart, and so they never asked the questions. Greg knew otherwise.

Sherlock sighed. “When I was 17, I stopped for two years.”

“Why?”

Sherlock stood up, collecting his case and putting the violin carefully back in it. He took his time over it, gentle and considerate with his movements. Greg was beginning to think he’d never hear the answer, when Sherlock spoke again. “I applied to Cambridge to do chemistry because my parents felt my talents lay in that area, and it would result in a very successful career. They were right, that I had good prospects there. What I really wanted, and what they never knew, was that I only wanted to play my violin. I applied to the Royal College Of Music. My audition was on the same day as my Cambridge interview. Of course, I couldn’t do both. So I never went to the Royal College and went to Cambridge instead.”

Greg stared at him. “Oh,” he breathed out, so desperately unhappy for him suddenly.

“My parents never knew, and neither did my teacher, or anyone else for that matter. For a long time, I couldn’t even look at the violin case.” Sherlock returned his gaze to his knees, making a steeple with his long fingers.

Greg frowned for a moment. “Sherlock?” he said.

Sherlock looked at him. “What?”

“I’m sorry if I’m… over-stepping a bit, but I don’t think you should be a consulting detective.”

Sherlock frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I mean. I mean you’re the best in the world at it. You’re brilliant. But you’re not happy. I can see it. Except when you picked that instrument up just now. Sherlock. You should apply to the Royal College.”

Sherlock shook his head. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not being. Surely it’s never too late to give it a go, yeah?”

“I’m rusty.”

Greg snorted. “Yeah right.”

“I am.”

“Then get a tutor for a while.” Greg leaned forward in his chair. “But, Sherlock. When you play… people listen. Remember that day outside the station? It was bloody freezing out. Everyone wanted to be anywhere but outside. Except where you were playing, there was a crowd around you. Do you know how many buskers I see every day and how many of them get crowds? Well, some of them manage three or four people maximum and only for a few minutes. You had so many, I could hardly see you. All I could hear was you playing.”

“That was years ago.”

“It’s still true now. You make people stop what they’re doing. You make people listen. You make… you make the world stop moving for a while. It’s my favourite thing in the world. Listening to you play.”

Sherlock stared across at him, his fingers rubbing against his knees. “I don’t know,” he whispered.

“What have you got to lose?”

“I. I don’t.”

“No. Exactly.” Greg smiled at him and checked his watch. “Come on, it’s well past my bedtime. You should get some sleep and then tomorrow, I want to hear that you’re getting a tutor and filling out an application form.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but his face had got brighter somehow, and he seemed to have accepted the idea without much of a fight. “Would you go to my concerts?” Sherlock asked.

Greg began to grin. “You couldn’t keep me away,” he replied, standing up. He held his hand out to Sherlock, who took it and allowed Greg to help him up. They held one another’s eyes for a few moments, before Sherlock began to smile, a real and true one, which put creases at the corners of his eyes, and made them shine with silent delight. Greg grinned back.

“You have to come,” Sherlock told him, still holding Greg’s hand and then lacing their fingers together. “I do my best work when you’re there.”

Greg nodded and took a step towards him, so glad to have Sherlock touching him again. He silently promised himself to never go so long without touching him, or kissing him, or holding him. “And I do my best work when you’re happy,” he told him.

Sherlock nodded, and closed the gap between them, dropping his head down onto Greg’s shoulder. Greg tangled his fingers in his hair, held him to his chest and began to walk them back towards Sherlock’s bedroom.

When he lay awake, Sherlock sprawled over him, he listened to his soft breaths and the rain outside the window, and thought that every sound Sherlock made would always be the most perfect music to him.


End file.
